


It Feels Loved

by the_pen_is_mightier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, short fic, warning: tenderness ahead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 08:57:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20328499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pen_is_mightier/pseuds/the_pen_is_mightier
Summary: Aziraphale worries that Crowley doesn't know how much he loves him. Crowley reassures Aziraphale that he does.





	It Feels Loved

**Author's Note:**

> This is a shorter-form fic from my tumblr @whatawriterwields. Enjoy!

“It’s not fair.” 

Those were the first words Crowley was aware of as he woke. They didn’t make sense to him - as he rose from comforting unconsciousness into the soft embrace of his angel, Aziraphale’s arm around him and his chest providing a pillow for Crowley’s head, who was complaining? - but they pierced through his sleep, seeming to demand an answer. 

“Hrm.” Crowley nestled further into Aziraphale’s hold. “Wha... whasnotfair?” 

A gentle kiss on the top of his head made Crowley melt, nearly losing track of reality again as warmth filled him. This really might not be the optimal time for a conversation on fairness. He’d slept through the night without nightmares, dreaming only of soft white feathers and tender smiles, and he wasn’t necessarily up for intellectual debate. 

But Aziraphale persisted. “_This_ isn’t fair. I can sense so much love from you, my dear. Endless amounts of it. You ought to be able to sense my love in return.” 

Crowley would have shrugged if the world wasn’t so very comfortable, so deeply conducive to immobility. “Demons don’t sense love.” 

“But I want you to sense mine!”

“S’not how it works.” Crowley snaked the arm not already curled around Aziraphale up from his side to hold the hand the angel didn’t already have draped over his shoulder. He kissed Aziraphale’s knuckles, soft with sleep and silken sheets. “S’all right, angel. I know you love me.” 

He wanted to sink back into semiconsciousness, reduce his reality once more to the feel of Aziraphale beside him and the gentle sound of his breathing, the warmth of his skin and the steady, deep beat of his heart. But Aziraphale squirmed. “You’ve no idea how lovely it is, Crowley, _feeling_ what you feel for me. It pains me to think I can’t share it with you.” 

“You are sharing it,” said Crowley, more insistently. “You’re telling me about it. And I like hearing how I make you feel.” 

“But, my dear boy, it’s _different._” 

Aziraphale wasn’t letting this go, Crowley realized, until he got a better answer. Sighing, he shifted his position, lifted his head off Aziraphale’s chest, and looked him in the face. The angel’s eyes were sharp, as always, but slightly bleary in the faint light of early morning, after a night spent holding Crowley in his sleep. And his brows were slightly crinkled with worry. 

“Angel,” he said, “I don’t need a sixth sense to feel how much you love me, all right? I know.” 

“But how are you sure?” 

Crowley smiled. His silly, fussy angel. He nuzzled Aziraphale’s neck with the crown of his head. “I’m sure, because you stay with me here every night, and you hold me, even though you don’t sleep yourself.”

“But -”

“I’m sure,” he said, firmly cutting Aziraphale off, “because you’re always taking my hand, when something excites you or makes you nervous, like you want to keep me beside you, like you _need_ me there. You do it without even thinking, but you’ve no idea how much it means to me, angel.” 

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale took the hand Crowley had intertwined with his and brought it to his lips, kissing his wrist, his palm. Slow and tender. Crowley sighed, closing his eyes again, resting his head once more on Aziraphale. 

“I’m sure,” he said, “because you’ve always seen the best in me, even when I couldn’t see it in myself. You never really thought me capable of great evil. You called me _nice_, once, do you remember that? And I slammed you up against a wall and you didn’t look even the least bit afraid of me.” 

“I wasn’t.” 

Crowley laughed. “See, that’s my point, angel. You trust me. Demons don’t trust each other - I haven’t been trusted in six millenia, you know that? No one down there would hesitate to kill me if they felt threatened. Hell _did_ try to kill me just for misplacing the antichrist. It’s incredible, now, feeling like someone has faith in me.” 

Aziraphale’s heart beat like a slow, soothing drum. Crowley wanted to get lost in it. 

“So,” he murmured, “let me have a little faith in you.” 

For a moment there was complete stillness. Crowley imagined the look Aziraphale was giving him - that soft, loving smile reserved only for him and extremely old books. He imagined the acceptance in Aziraphale’s eyes, because Aziraphale always accepted, in the end, that Crowley was perfect just the way he was. He kept his eyes closed. 

Then Aziraphale shifted. He rolled onto his side and pulled Crowley fully into his arms, encircling him. Crowley wiggled into a comfortable position in this new tiny nest his angel had built of himself. This proved very effective at blocking out the rest of the world, shrinking it once more to simply the two of them, and Crowley slipped back towards sleep as the gentle embrace enveloped him. 

“How about this,” Aziraphale said softly against his ear. “Any time you’re afraid, or sad, or lonely - any time you feel lost or estranged - or any time you want, really, I don’t mind, just ask me how much I love you. And I’ll see if I can tell it in words.” 

Crowley curled his arms around Aziraphale’s waist and hugged him tight. “It’s a deal.” 

“And I’ll tell you, as well, whenever I want to.”

“Done.”

“Crowley?” 

“Mmmm?”

Aziraphale pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “I love you.” 

“Hmm.” He smiled. “I know.”


End file.
